


In Her Eyes

by Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Reminiscing, Wee bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24369508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone/pseuds/Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone
Summary: From the reflection of a glass, she sees what she has lost. Yet he patiently stands behind her, as he had always been, waiting for her to fall for him once more.
Relationships: Prussia/Hungary
Kudos: 1





	In Her Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A PruHun fic. Oneshot. Also, I wrote it in present tense, which is a first for me. I don’t know if I did it right. But I just love this pair too much! --reuploaded from FFN.
> 
> This is the fic that has made me found my writing style up to the present.

The house is finally clean today.

A shrill legato echoes through the fancily-adorned and lonely halls. The lilting melody of a woman sings songs of the battlefield, her voice finding solace in the aged lyrics of lost and fallen heroes of the old, of wars and peace, of lovers and enemies.

Green eyes glance to one of the windows that she had just finished cleaning, and in the glass panes that are showered in sunshine, she sees not a reflection of herself. Not a reflection of the girl with the flowing dresses and flowers decked upon her wavy hair. Not a reflection of the girl with gentle eyes and a silent smile. Not a reflection of the girl that holds a broom and a washcloth, things that make her look like a tame and submissive woman.

No.

She never sees herself like the frail women in her native folklore—those who are too weak and too scared to defend themselves.

In her reflection, in her eyes, she sees not a meek and defenseless girl, but a strong and fierce _warrior_.

Soft green eyes harden as she stares at her reflection, and in it, she sees herself once more—

—her dainty hands wielding a vermillion-tipped sword. Her brows furrow, forest-green eyes searing cold and ruthless from seeing too much wars and deaths hanging beneath her bloodied feet. Her face teeming with scars and soot, both of which are melded together to be a part of who she is now. Her dress, a bodice of gold-plated armor that hugs her well-endowed form, its metal being repeatedly scraped with the slashes of a double-edged blade. Her apron, a cape torn and burned by the hands of her past enemies.

If she tries to see close enough, she can almost see behind her, not the peaceful painting of a serene countryside, but the legions of marching warriors loyally following her, all of them young and brave and courageous to fight and lay their lives for their beloved country.

For a fleeting moment, she sees in her reflection, another warrior, also young and brave and just as brash as her, standing beside her with the face of determination, valor, and fearlessness.

She sees the fire in his eyes, the zeal to fight evident in his raised sword and his proud stance, ready to pounce on anyone that may hurt his haughty self.

A ghost of a smirk curls on her lips, unconsciously mimicking the other brave warrior’s expression in her mind’s eye.

She sees him in her reflection, fighting alongside with her, their backs pressed together as they slay down enemy after enemy with resounding battle cries of peace and freedom.

She blinks, and her eyes see the peaceful countryside once more. Her face devoid of any mars and grime. Her hands holding a broom. Her clothes, a maid’s dress.

And she fights back the tears that threaten to slide from her battle-worn eyes.

A distant echo of a familiar voice knocks her out her nostalgia. And when she calls back to the voice, she hears the sound of boots clopping on the marbled floors.

She wipes a lone tear that escapes from her weary and misty eyes, and the sound of a hearty laugh booms in her ears as a man emerges from the intricate hallways. And his voice pierces her crying heart—a cordial welcome to the otherwise mundane turn of her previously battle-filled life.

“Yo!” he says out loud to her, greeting her with a mock salute and that ever-present smirk.

In her eyes, she sees his fiery self, as blazing as his garnet orbs. He always greets her daily with such fervor that her day, she mentally swears, will never be complete without his vibrant presence.

“Hey,” she weakly mutters back, and as she looks up at him, she tries to bury all the onslaught of thoughts that bellow in her muddied and melancholic mind, and her body stills as he walks closer towards her slightly trembling frame.

She hopes he wouldn’t notice.

“Hey, let’s go hunting,” he offers proudly with an outstretched hand and a wide grin.

Her vision blinks back another wave of tears.

“I can’t,” she whispers, more so to herself than him. And she prays that he wouldn’t have to see the shaking of her chin and bottom lip.

But he does, anyway.

He never acknowledges it, though.

“Just this once?” he prods, and to her, it sounds as though he’s _begging_ , and the mere thought of it almost makes her laugh—

—for Prussia never begs.

She eyes the beckoning gloved hand warily, as though touching it might make her years of carefully-built resolve to crumble to pieces.

“I can’t,” she weakly repeats, and she swears he senses the tiny squeak from her usually composed voice. She looks down to her shoes.

“Just try?” he prods some more, his voice ringing out a cacophony of memories in her ears.

In the dead silence of the halls, Prussia barely sees the tear that slips past her chin, and he bites his inner cheek, gauging her reaction as a reason to run away now.

He never wants to see her cry.

He lowers his hand lifelessly; a bitter smile paints his face as he laughs mirthlessly.

“I knew you would say no. You always do.”

The faintest of whimpers from her stabs his heart, and he inwardly curses himself.

He knows. He _always_ knows.

Hungary will never betray Austria.

He swallows a lump in his suddenly parched throat, glances at her saddened frame, her tears, and her withheld submissiveness.

She is not the Hungary he knows. At least, the Hungary he used to know would never act this way.

He breathes deeply, blinks away an unshed tear—because someone as magnificent as him _never_ cries—

He turns his back on her, and he silently mouths a muted apology, to whom, he doesn’t even know.

The clopping of boots on the marbled floors echoes lethargically.

Prussia only makes it five steps before he stops dead in his tracks.

A pair of trembling arms wraps around his torso, and the familiar feeling of warmth fills his rigid back.

“Just this once—just this once,” she whispers inaudibly to his clothes. She takes a quick heave of breath as she chokes back another sob, and she smells the scent of his body—faint wisps of gunpowder and of freshly-baked bread.

His scent hits her home.

And he wastes no time in seeing her crying—because crying is for wimps, and the Hungary he knows is _not_ a wimp—he wipes off her tears with his gloved hands, and as though nothing transpired just mere moments ago, the smirk returns to his face tenfold.

“Just this once.”

And he firmly and excitedly holds her hand, just like old times, and leads her away from the cold and silent walls and the stuffy furniture that litters the house—

They run away from it all, and the sound of their laughter fills the cream-hued walls that houses Hungary for so long. And as though Time sweeps back its hands, Prussia leads a happily crying Hungary away from the house of her former husband.

From one of the vast rooms of the estate, a lonely melody vibrates in the cold air, the shrill notes of staccato and vibrato mixing together to form an ethereal song.

The sound of laughter from the hallways slowly dies out, and the final note on the piano fades away.

Silence reigns for a moment too long, and a sigh leaves Austria’s lips as he stands and makes his way towards the glass windows in his room—that Hungary secretly and painstakingly cleans everyday, making sure that he will never know—

Austria glances at his vast property of land, yet his eyesight focuses on a pair guffawing near a cherry tree, a man and a woman, with their hands interlocked tightly, both of them running away from his house.

His brows curl downwards, and his crossed arms tighten around his form as he looks, _stares_ , at the face that his former wife holds.

She laughs, smiles, _beams_ , at an equally beaming Prussia.

Never had she been so free-spirited in the aristocrat’s presence. Yet the haughty Prussia seems to be the only one to make her truly happy.

Austria sees her as a dainty and frail flower—a lady to be protected at all times. Prussia sees her as a wild and fiery warrior—a hot-blooded woman to be nurtured and seized in the unbridled ways of passion.

Hungary has always been of the wild. Never to be hinged and held back by the norms.

Her long and wavy brown hair flutters as she points at a robin that flew by a tree.

Prussia sets her free, to her true self—

Austria clenches his teeth and watches silently as a running and squealing and perspiring Hungary slips out a pair of revolvers from beneath the ruffles of her skirts that are now tucked properly by her holster. She zooms past a roaring Prussia, who takes out a rifle from his back—

—and they disappear towards the large oak trees that tower over Austria’s land, and not long after, the sure sound of gunshots reverberate in the air, making the birds fly out of their nests and the hares hop away from their burrows—

A natural huntress, she is. A trueborn warrior and a huntress.

Austria frowns.

In her eyes, he presumes she will never be free as long as she is bound within the looming and suffocating defense of his house.

Everything he does is for her, and yet—

The bellowing guffaw of one prideful nation resounds in the cool autumn wind, and Austria wonders just what it must feel if he were to act more like the Free State of Prussia—maybe, just maybe, she will spare him just a glance, a glimpse of that contagious and carefree smile that she holds solely for the red-eyed man.

In her eyes, she will always hold a special and cherished place for Prussia.

A place that Austria can and will never reach.

He returns to his piano, and resumes playing a solemn melody.

In the stillness of the room, he cries to himself.

Unbeknownst to him, Prussia and Hungary are now far away from the outskirts of Austria’s house, the two of them tumbling down the wind-blown fields, their bodies too warmed up by the sun, and their voices too hoarse from yelling out cries of freedom, and they smile at each other as their arms stretch out, fingertips just barely touching, their breaths too raspy and lungs too tired from all the running they had done.

“Are you still up for game hunting?” Prussia asks breathlessly, his lips still smirking at the sight of a panting and perspiring Hungary.

“I think we’ve had enough playtime for today,” she breathes as she turns her head towards him, and she sports a smirk that perfectly mimics Prussia’s.

He will never have it any other way.

“Just try?” he coaxes, and he watches as she flutters her eyelashes at him, blocking away the afternoon sun.

The exhaustion leaves his being as she closes her weary eyes, and that smile remains on her lips—

And he kisses her tentatively.

She doesn’t flinch, nor does he squirm away from his act, but she sighs, from relief or from catching her breath, he will never know. But one thing’s for sure.

“Just this once,” she replies as soon as she detaches her lips from his, and as red eyes stare at green ones, he is struck with sureness—

“Just this once,” he confirms with a meek nod.

—that Hungary will always relinquish into Prussia’s pleas.

He places a gentle kiss on her cheek, and mutters a quiet thank you as he embraces her.

“Just like old times,” he whispers to her ear, and a shiver courses down her spine as she closes her eyes.

“Just like old times,” she parrots, and she tightly embraces him back, the memories of Austria being buried in the recesses of her mind as she nuzzles close to Prussia’s form.

And for a moment, they felt as if they were back to the days of their wild youth, back to when he first discovers that Hungary is a woman—

—and he kisses her, and he repeats it, again and again, until the plans of game hunting becomes long forgotten within their nostalgic hearts.

Prussia soon discovers, once the sun goes down, that Hungary will always best him in everything, kissing being one of them.

As she keens and trails open-mouthed kisses down his throat, he smirks to himself—

_In her eyes, I will always be her partner_.

* * *


End file.
